In the early morning of London, the sky had not fully cleared, and the fog from the night had yet to disperse among the streets and alleys north of the Thas River. The garden’s various horticultural flowers, grass leaves, and window glass were cloaked in a thin layer of dew.
The door of No. 15 Lancaster Gate was routinely opened promptly at 6:30 in the morning. As part of his early morning exercise, Arthur did not call for a carriage.
Perhaps because of his habit ford during his early years patrolling the streets with Scotland Yard, he preferred to walk through this gradually awakening city in the morning, both to stretch his muscles and to organize his thoughts during this short journey. Morning walks through London were more invigorating than any dicine.
He descended the steps in front of his house and walked along Bayswater Road north of Hyde Park, passing through shadows cast by trees and stone walls yet to be dispelled by sunlight.
The bakery at the street corner was just raising its wooden shutter, and the mixed scent of malt and butter could be slled in the air. A maid with her hair wrapped was bending over, scattering the kitchen garbage towards the sparrows chirping incessantly at the door, muttering words to herself, whether in complaint or scolding these insensitive sparrows.
Arthur silently nodded to her. The young girl, upon seeing this strange gentleman, quickly fell silent, blushing as she returned a smile, watching him turn into Oxford Street.
In the early 19th century, Oxford Street was still a representative of London’s filth and chaos. However, after the street’s refurbishnt, it was slowly transforming into a high-class comrcial street. Curtain workshops, candy stores, and Scottish tweed shops lined the street. Through the shop windows, one could see an array of ladies’ hats, French perfu, coarse tweed jackets, and the latest embroidered stockings sent from Glasgow.
The street was not yet bustling, with only a few laborers carrying buckets and coachn hauling coal carts. The rchants opening their stores in the morning were busy dusting inside with small dusters, while the shoeshine boy sitting at the store entrance, who had just set up his stall, glanced at Arthur’s spotless boots, wisely retreating back to the side of the steps.
Arthur made his way across Tottenham Cross, ventured through the rising streets of Soho, and then headed south into Charing Cross.
This place has always been a peculiar intersection of the city: east towards downtown, west towards the Royal Palace, north overlooking bookstores, and south towards theaters.
Arthur stood at a street corner stall, ordered a cup of coffee, and rested for a mont. Dining there were many construction workers. From their conversation, these workers should be involved in the National Gallery expansion project. On the carriages they parked at the street corner, a batch of newly delivered marble columns were neatly arranged.
Continuing forward from Charing Cross, upon entering Strand Street, the cries of newspaper boys began to echo. The front page of the Chronicle Morning Paper discussed fluctuations in East India Company stock prices. The Tis extensively reported on the new policies after the lbourne Cabinet’s ascent to power. The Tis introduced readers to the latest trend in railroad bonds. anwhile, The Economist’s pages largely focused on how England’s Electromagnetic Telegraph Company secured the exclusive rights to Belgium’s railroad telegraph, shaking up the London Financial City.
A young intern reporter, with a tense expression, clutching a bundle of papers, brushed past Arthur. As he ran, he was softly reciting the interview draft he had prepared overnight. His appearance reminded Arthur of himself during his university days at the University of London. At that ti, he was not yet a Sir, but rely Mr. Hastings, who had just shed his farr’s coarse linen attire for a student’s coarse tweed jacket.
Not far ahead was Fleet Street, one of the streets that awoke earliest in London.
The printing press rollers had already turned a page, and the sll of ink and damp paper rushed into the nostrils. When the citizens of London were just waking up to go to work, most of Fleet Street’s work had already neared its end. The printing workers and proofreaders, busy through the night, were having a simple breakfast and morning drinks at the street corner stands. anwhile, the bespectacled editors who had just arrived at their offices were preparing tomorrow’s sample papers.
Now and then, you might see a few unlucky fellows, who hadn’t returned ho the previous night, peeking out from second-floor windows. Judging by their scruffy beards and notebooks in hand, they were most likely night-draft correspondents.
Arthur arrived at the entrance of the Englishman editorial office. The copper sign had been washed bright by last night’s rain. He took off his gloves and gently knocked on the wood door, still carrying the night’s moisture.
Today was the day of the monthly board eting of the Empire Publishing Company.
Publications famous throughout Britain like The Englishman, Spark, The Economist, Nature, were all scheduled to submit this quarter’s advertising revenue reports and distribution status to the board today, also undergoing routine inquiries from board mbers.
The clock in the front desk had just passed seven forty. The receptionist was seated behind a small table piled with clippings and file folders, browsing through freshly delivered newspapers while sipping freshly brewed tea.
He looked up, saw Arthur coming in, and hurriedly stood to greet: "Good morning, Sir. There are already three or four people in the eting room, but a few editors are still on their way. However... just now, there was a visitor not on the list, claiming to have an appointnt with you."
"An appointnt with ?" Arthur removed his coat and hung it on the coat stand: "What’s his na?"
"Victor, Mr. Francois Vidocq from Paris. He’s been waiting for you for twenty minutes."
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